


As You Wish

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [68]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 711 OV, Abuse of Authority, Aftercare, Anonymous Sex, Archades, BDSM, Blindfolds, Caning, Collars, Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Game(s), Restraints, Solidor!Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-09
Updated: 2008-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>"We--" the boy says, with a pause to rebuke Vossler's inattention, "are not entirely to each other's tastes."</cite></p><p>Post-Game Spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laylah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/gifts).



By the Light, imperials are perverse.

Vossler has only once visited a room such as this, a happy, horrible accident that he swore would never happen again. He swore on his honour never to permit such need, such weakness to rule him. He has Basch's hands now, and Basch's mouth, and Basch's considerate touch; Vossler should not need else. However, he is present not by choice, but at a request. The boy is Basch's liege and Vossler has considered himself under Basch until Dalmasca will have him back.

Across the room, the boy unthreads inky purple ribbons from metal rings set into two parallel columns half-emerging from the wall, depositing them into a nearby open chest. From Vossler's position, he cannot see inside, but he can count five other chests just like it, all unmarked, unopened and deep. Vossler does not move closer.

Still only attentive to his work, the boy re-threads the poles with black leather straps, the higher pair two rings above those where the ribbons hung, and tugs them and their silver buckles securely, firmly in place.

When he swallows, Vossler's collar presses close against his throat.

It may have been Basch's gift, but his friend thinks it an innocent token of their shared past, a memory of the Order for Vossler to conceal beneath his judge's plate-- as though anything could lessen that shame. Basch has never yet questioned that Vossler so often requires aid in fastening the thing and every time Basch has asked if he sets it too tight, Vossler has asked for tighter.

"We--" the boy says, with a pause to rebuke Vossler's inattention, "are not entirely to each other's tastes." He stands only two paces away, holding a blindfold, and this is not conversation.

Vossler fights the urge to kneel; he need not humiliate himself unbidden. The boy is not the child he remembers but, at a fraction less than half Vossler's age, Vossler will not call him a man. (In Dalmasca, he would be of his majority, but this is not Dalmasca.) His voice may have broken, but he's still skinny as a girl. Vossler ties a knot behind his head that cannot be faulted, and waits.

"Now-- strip." It's a traitorous thought that one such as him cannot be fit to rule, to command men, and a false one when _that_ knowing edge to his voice makes Vossler's blood pulse. "Without jostling the blindfold. Consider it the evening's first test."

Vossler strips efficiently: jacket and shirt, boots and trousers, stockings and the shorts he chooses to wear though they mark him barbarian. He cannot see what the boy makes of his shorts, cannot hear him titter, but Vossler's jaw tightens at the thought. Vossler takes care not to trouble the blindfold, but refuses to make a show of it. It is enough that he is half-risen already, when he has not even been touched.

" _That_ as well." The voice says he has stepped closer again, and then Vossler feels cool gloved fingers, reaching for Vossler's throat.

Without thinking, Vossler slaps the fingers away, and then feels more the fool for the lapse of control. He should have spat on the blindfold, but he did not. Vossler undoes the buckle himself, curling the thick strip of leather over his palm. Basch thinks of it as a piece of jewellery, a belt; Vossler tries to do the same, but for the first time in this room, he feels naked.

It is taken from his hands. He expected nothing else.

"You may earn that back, in time." Vossler feels that cool fabric touch on his arm, allows himself to be led forward. "But not, I think, from me."

The floor's tiles are not cold under his feet, some form of heating that keeps the chill from the air. The buckles at his feet fasten first, holding him spread, but no wider than his shoulders' span. Nothing uncomfortable. Then, his wrists, again, a comfortable height, and he has the wall in front of him to lean against. It is upholstered, and this is too much damn, decadent Archadian luxury.

The first blow makes him grunt, but with surprise not pain, as it strikes his arse with-- a paddle? Vossler realises he'd expected warning, expected this one to take the opportunity to mock him-- and then there is a second blow, also insultingly soft, and spaced too far apart besides.

There is a pause, and now it is a switch, the sort that even the little emperor has outgrown. It stings. These strikes are faster, and if Vossler were younger, softer, perhaps it would colour his skin. He shifts his wrists in their bindings, rotates his feet, turns his neck. Vossler thinks of the ribbons. Has the twit had anyone but dancing girls here?

Vossler has never allowed himself to strike a whip for pleasure, but he has disciplined soldiers. He has hit men and known how to control how they would hurt to best appreciate the lesson. He has disciplined Archadians in their own army, their regulations so ready for blood. He knows that the ignorant can leave worse scars than the bloodthirsty-- and Vossler realises now that that is exactly who he has allowed to chain him against a padded wall. How desperate he was, to think an eighteen-year-old would know more than talk.

Another pause.

Vossler resolves that he will not talk unless he talked to. He will not complain, will not beg for better, harsher treatment, lest this incompetence be nothing be a pretence. In Bhujerba all those years ago, they had wanted to know how he enjoyed being hurt, but Vossler is not so foolish to think that his desires have any importance here but that they may be thwarted. He will not turn his head, or tense his muscles, or grind forward against the wall. Vossler is only fool enough that thwarting his desires makes him burn so.

He hears a shuttered gasp, and the crack of-- something-- blunt striking across his lower back.

It hurts.

Again, and again. These are-- hard, harsher. They do not-- stop to let him-- think what it is. He grunts against the pain, tries to relax against the blows, his back, his arms, his legs, his back, his arse-- repetition-- but not always, no pattern he can hold. He will be bruising. He must be. He's surprised he cannot smell blood. This is still nothing like skill, these blows that make him see light now, eyes shutting tight under the blindfold, colours he can't quite name. It's nothing like discipline, nothing measured, nothing counted. It's nothing like pleasure. It hurts like a mother-fucking beating, but he feels a vicious satisfaction surging with his blood. He's so eager now; he'll blackout before he comes--

But then it stops, truly stops, not merely pausing for the next stroke, or next implement, and he slumps against the wall, limbs pulling their cuffs. His skin is wet, suddenly, warming, smoothing the edges of the pain. He is arching forwards, and then back, so needy. Vossler can suddenly feel enough to think, to remember what stopping here means-- and then, yes--

Vossler groans, but he does not care. Perhaps the boy is less a boy than he had thought, for his fingers are thick. They are slick, and enter him so tenderly he aches. Oh, let this be quick. He is ready to be done.

"Does he meet with your approval, Judge Magister Gabranth?"

Vossler tenses, his body protesting, those thick blunt fingers pausing only briefly before stroking further in, closer to _there_ , like they know him. Vossler has no patience left, for this boy and his games. Let him be thrashed for talking back, take back all the pain that potion splash took away. Give him violence that honest, something that even Archadians cannot poison.

"You lie." His throat is hoarse. His lips are cracked, his tongue tasting faint blood as it scraps across them.

"He does not," someone says, hot breath in the shell of Vossler's ear, and the fingers within him twist. The imitation, the accent is close.

Vossler pulls hard at the cuffs, thinks to strike his head on the wall. Under that upholstery, there must be stone. One blow isn't enough to do more than bring back the lights, but--

There is meat between his head and the wall, hot flesh that smells of sour sweat. The other hand is at Vossler's hip. Vossler can feel the man so close behind him, the lick of the heat from his skin, the stray rasp of fabric with no pressure directing. They burn over Vossler's bruises.

"Vossler, please--" His voice is quiet, a bare, thin whisper. He kisses the back of Vossler's neck. "Do you need the blindfold?"

Basch repeats the question twice before Vossler answers: "No."

The light almost hurts, but so does everything. Basch is telling him to open his eyes slowly, but he needs to see that blond palm braced in front of him. He feels Basch's fingers down his crease, pushing in again. Vossler groans. Basch kisses his neck again, and whispers, toneless: "Tell me what you need."

Vossler sobs, pressing back. Only Basch could demand more of him without knowing that he did.

"Just fuck me, damn you!"

Basch only reaches down for Vossler's cock, blatant, leaking, jutting eagerly into Basch's broad hand. "Can you come like this?"

Basch doesn't tease, strokes hard and fast over Vossler's cock and his prostate. His body cannot not touch Vossler's. The aches over Vossler's back remind him that this is real, not some fantasy of the mind to make him come hard and be sick to his stomach. Basch knows now, but the pain has shattered Vossler's self-control.

"Larsa's left. Can you come-- for me?"

He has nothing left but the blood rushing in his ears, the flesh shaking between Basch's hands, and in another moment, not even that.

Vossler feels more potion splashed over his back, making him tired and warm, and then Basch is un-buckling Vossler's feet, and then his wrists. Basch helps him slide down the wall to sit.

"You did like that?"

Vossler's collar is buckled around Basch's neck. Good. Vossler has to take hold of Basch's head in his hands and kiss him to make Basch know that that is what he wants. He puts Basch's arms around his torso, and exhales with relief to feel them tighten. Vossler could take far worse than what the little twit had dished out. Basch should know that.

But Basch stops Vossler's mouth, hand wound tight in the hair at the nape of Vossler's neck.

"Did you like it, Vossler?"

Basch is fully clothed, looks a little dazed but more determined and not aroused at all. "Larsa said he knew what you wanted-- this collar-- I knew you liked your hands held down, sometimes."

Basch's eyes are earnest and blue. The mention of the collar makes Vossler's neck feel cold and light, but Basch has it, not the boy. Basch still does not know what it means. He would not be wearing it if he did. Vossler could ask for it back. No. If he asked for it, he knows that Basch would give it back, just like before, a present, a piece of jewellery. Vossler cannot ask for that. He cannot let his hands fall to stroke Basch's bound neck, another temptation.

"Should I not ask if you liked it? Larsa said that these activities were governed by rules, but he did not explain them."

"He and his rules can go hang," Vossler tells Basch. "Ask whatever you want. Do as you will, or make me do as you will I should."

"And if I would like to heal your back, not re-open your wounds?"

"Basch, I'm spent, that would be--"

Normal, but what about this could be called normal? Everything Vossler knows of these arrangements comes from the one distant memory, blackmarket viewing crystals and the houses he has visited as a Judge. The imperials will licence anything they can think to tax. In this city, brothels are like any other place of business, perfectly within rights to call on the guard-- the army-- to settle disturbances of the peace. An Archadian pleasure parlour was more apt to be a warren of tiny, anonymous cubicles-- hell to navigate at speed, and nigh impossible to find the correct cubicle without checking thirteen others first. His assignments these past months were no doubt also to be blamed on the brat's interference.

But, Basch is waiting for him to speak, rubbing gentle circles over his back. Basch expects him to know what to do.

"If you want to heal me, I'm yours."

Basch nods. He helps Vossler to his hands and knees, braced facing the wall. It is a pale cream, leather too smooth not to be manufacted.

"Steady?"

"Yes."

The cure spell's strength leaves Vossler gasping, the pure, shocking absence of pain, but Basch is there.

"Did you like it?"

"Yes." Vossler stares down at his own hands. "Some of it-- you know he wouldn't be my first choice?"

He waits for Basch to laugh, or smile, but he only nods, settling beside Vossler on the floor. He has a soft, wet cloth and bowl of steaming water.

Vossler tries again. "Sometimes, it's good to have simple orders."

"That much pain is always simple."

Basch washes him piece by piece: his neck, his shoulders, up and down both arms, his back. He wrings the cloth out as it cools, and holds Vossler in place with a hand resting at Vossler's hip.

"I don't know why I like that. I've not let myself..."

"We can learn together. Anything but blindfolds, I can learn how to do for you."

"You needn't-- This cannot please you." Vossler clenches and unclenches the fists that supported his weight.

"It wasn't what I expected." The cloth strokes upward along the inside of Vossler's left thigh. "When you stripped, when he chained you down, you stood straighter than you have since I brought you back. You looked proud."

The cloth comes back, so warm, as Basch washes Vossler's cock, his balls and over his stomach. "When he hit you, just the first few times with the cane, you looked strong. I want to learn how to do that, Vossler."

When Basch finishes Vossler's chest, he lets Vossler sit back into his lap. He kisses Vossler's brow. Vossler loops an arm around Basch's neck, fingers stroking the leather. He's too tired to make more of it, but Basch looks good like this.

"But right now, I want to take you back to my rooms, and I want to watch you sleep."

"Clothes first?"

"Clothes first."

"Then, all right. Lead on."


End file.
